What is life without me there?

Is it same or better?

Our house somehow stands on rotten columns.

I know your life stoops like the guava tree, ma,

Bowed you are by the wind.

Thoughts come wading to me through flood waters

And rush like the neighbourhood dogs.

Mother of Chandan, they say you let

A piece of your body part from you.

What makes you stand there and chew

Your thoughts? Last year

Ma, when the current pulled my brother

Not the grains or clothes, you ran

Loose-haired, screaming witch-like whirlwind.

Ma, on your chest have grown thorns.

Teacher said I am flimsy as the flying pollens.

Uncle said I have angelic skin.

My face scratched and grubbed Deta’s chest

To make way into his soul.

I understand there is none as he.

But what will your life be without me?

My friends used to ask me what is red, mother.

Then, I only knew the krishnachura flower.

I have learnt the red of blood.

Groping, gripping and staggering I stood

By the lily blooming lake in the morning sun.

Take me there again.

It is so much dark in here.

End note: Deta: Colloquial reference to father in Assamese
Krishnachura: The flowering plant Delonix regia, known as royal poinciana or flamboyant.

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